


A Different Sort of Rest

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, mostly it's fluff, the h/c is really mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint hates press conferences. Coming home is good, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Sort of Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts).



> Written for raiining, to soothe a crappy day. I was supposed to post it yesterday, but that obviously failed. Oops.

Clint hates press conferences. 

To be fair, all of the Avengers hate press conferences, each for their own reasons. Half of Stark's questions are about Stark Industries, even though the standard introductory spiel specifically states that he won't be answering them. Everything anyone says to Bruce comes across like a thinly veiled inquiry into just how much control he has of the Hulk. Natasha keeps getting asked what's under her suit and which designers she prefers, even though the answers never change ("underwear" and "I don't keep track"). Thor and Steve both have to put up with assumptions about their beliefs and attitudes and preferences that would be hilarious if they weren't so frequently offensive.

Up against all that, maybe Clint shouldn't mind so much that he doesn't get asked any questions at all. At first he did; his past has its colorful elements, but between his social services, the circus's advertising, his juvenile record, and his stint in the military, most of it is a matter of public record (or classified) and he'd never been defensive about any of it. He owned his past, one way or another, and after the first few interviews no one really found it interesting anymore. That he doesn't mind, but instead of making room for questions about his life now, his work with the Avengers, it just made room for more questions for everyone else.

He understands, he does. He's usually up on a roof somewhere, and with the news cameras on the ground or in helicopters, he's always too far away for a decent picture. Plus his arrows travel too fast to follow from bow to target, and the press don't have access to their comm frequencies. They can't ask questions about what he's done when they don't _know_.

His teammates always give him credit, of course. Some journalist asks Tony, "How did you get the armor plates off that creature?" and he says, "Oh, that was Hawkeye, he got an explosive arrow in through a chink." Or they ask Steve how he could have known that Natasha needed support from three streets over and he says, "Hawkeye keeps track of the battle as a whole and where each member of the team is at."

But it doesn't make a difference. Whichever journalist or reporter asked might glance at him, but they don't bother with follow up questions. Captain America and Tony's flying suit and a God (or alien, depending on who's asking) and the Hulk and a woman with hand to hand combat skills like none of the general public have ever seen are a lot more interesting than a guy with a weapon that's been well understood for hundreds of years.

Clint can't even play on his phone or work on his report during these damn things; the PR department says it looks bad. It's kind of ironic, actually; when he's contributing, no one can tell, and when he's not, he has to make them think he is.

So yeah, he hates press conferences. Hates to be made to feel like he has nothing to offer. Hates that afterward, he can't even complain about the damn things the way his teammates do, because he knows any one of them would trade places with him in a moment.

Instead, he listens to them and grimaces in the right places, and waves at each of them as they get off on their floors of the Tower. His and Phil's is the top floor. He wants Phil to be home, but he's not holding out much hope; it's only three in the afternoon. But when the elevator doors slide open the faint sounds of brassy big band music drift out to greet him, turned on low for background noise, and he can smell coffee. Clint's shoulders unwind and he walks into the kitchen area to find Phil at the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hunched over a spread of paperwork, a cup of coffee cooling at his elbow.

He's the best thing Clint's seen all day, even with his brow wrinkled as he mutters over the paperwork. "Hey," Clint says. He pauses next to Phil for a moment, laying a hand on his shoulder and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He lets his lips linger there for a moment, eyes drifting briefly closed.

"Hey," Phil says absently. He doesn't ask how the press conference went. He knows.

Clint steps away from him and moves from the table area into the kitchen proper. He considers the coffee pot--half full--for a moment before going to the fridge for a beer instead. He's just closing the fridge door when he hears Phil's chair scrape back. He turns, and Phil takes the beer bottle out of his hand and sets it on the counter before sliding his arms around Clint's waist and pulling him in close.

Clint groans and leans forward, bending his head to rest his forehead on Phil's shoulder. "Tell me again why I have to go to these things," he says. Phil doesn't let go of him, so Clint raises his arms to return the hug. Phil is warm and solid and familiar.

"People would ask questions if you weren't there," he says apologetically.

"They don't ask any questions when I _am_ there, I don't see why not being there should be any different," Clint grumbles, but he knows Phil is right, so he doesn't push it when Phil just hums in response. They stand in the kitchen like that for a long time, leaning on each other and enjoying the tangible presence of the other person just being there. Eventually, Clint sighs. "I want my beer."

Phil's chuckle rumbles through both of their chests. "Let's take this to the couch."

Clint pulls back in answer and picks up his beer and ambles out to the couch while Phil tidies up his files and puts them away in his briefcase. Clint doesn't sit down on the couch, though. Instead he picks up the TiVo remote and flips through the stored programs. God, Phil's taste in TV is terrible. Clint has a rating system for his shows, 1 to 10 on a scale of how shrill or strident the voices get. He finds an episode of something that falls below the nails on a chalkboard level and queues it up. By the time he's done Phil has switched off the music he had playing and is seated, half reclining on the couch. Clint joins him, stretched out mostly on top of him and not really facing the TV at all. Phil puts an arm around him and nudges him until he's settled in a way that's comfortable for Phil, too. 

When they're arranged Phil starts up the episode, sets the remote aside, and opens Clint's beer for him so that he doesn't get elbowed in the gut when Clint tries to do it. Clint has to sip carefully, but that's okay, he likes the way everything slows down when they get here. He lets his mind drift, lets himself lose track of everything except Phil's scent and the press of his body, the taste of the beer and the drone of trivial problems from the TV. He's not going to fall asleep, he's not that kind of tired. This is a different sort of rest, the sort he didn't even know he needed until he and Phil got their act together. Phil absently tangles their fingers together and Clint smiles and gives his hand a little squeeze. 

~!~


End file.
